Retribution
by Colorado1
Summary: Phileas' only motivation to live is revenge. Will he succeed in meting out retribution or learn all is not lost?


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Disclaimers, Warnings, Etc.: 

1. Leixlip is a real town in Ireland. Many locations mentioned in relationship to it existed; others are the products of an overactive imagination. 

2. I don't know how fast a dirigible can go, so the traveling time may be out of kilter. 

3. Many characters would speak either with an accent or in their own vernacular. However, I'm too lazy to research this, it's written the same. Just imagine an Irish brogue.

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Ownership: These characters don't belong to me, except for the ones you don't recognize. 

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Rating: PG-13 (for some language and scenes of violence)

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Category: Angst, Drama

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Feedback: Most Definitely

Thanks to Ryalin, my faithful beta, who stuck with me in this genre change.

y

Retribution

by Colorado1

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"A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green."—Francis Bacon

__

It's a wonder he hasn't killed himself yet.

Jules Verne shifted on the leather carriage seat and out of the corner of his eye watched the man seated across from him. Phileas Fogg was clean-shaven, impeccably dressed, and sober for the first time in a month. He looked like his former self, but Jules knew appearances could be deceiving—and this one certainly was. 

The English countryside passed by in a shroud of fog. Familiar farmhouses, graceful copper beeches, and autumnal gardens were obscured by rain, as if a giant hand had dropped gray gauze over the landscape. The carriage lurched hard to the left as it turned off the road to Shillingworth Magna and headed toward London. The Phileas of old would have rapped on the roof with his walking stick and firmly reprimanded the coachman for driving so poorly. Now, he sat passively.

__

He did try to shoot himself.

Jules winced at the memory of that first anguished week. The house—no, the entire estate—was consumed with grief. Drunk and, Jules believed, out of his mind after their failed search in Ireland, the strong, arrogant, commanding Phileas Fogg tookgrabbed a revolver and pointed it at his temple. But Passepartout, knowing his master so well, had already removed the bullets.

Jules turned his secretive glance to the valet on his left. Well-heeled in his best coat and gloves, Passepartout wore the strain of the past four weeks like an ill-fitting shirt—too tight but unavoidable. There had been many late nights and too much sorrow for this naturally jovial man. And across his left cheek was a purple bruise, an unpleasant reminder of sobering up his master for today's meeting. Passepartout didn't laugh any more, and Jules rarely saw that joyous smile light up his expressive, tanned face. He hadn't been invited to accompany them to Sir Jonathon Chatsworth's office—he had simply gotten in the carriage. _Perhaps he thinks I'll need help restraining Fogg_. Phileas had always harbored a deep contempt for Chatsworth. And now….

His thoughts wandered back to Passepartout. The loyal Frenchman claimed to know his station—"I am downstairs," he often told Jules, who scoffed at the English social structure as only a young idealist could. But Passepartout hadn't thought twice about coming today. He, too, had loved her.

Swallowing unexpected tears, Jules smoothed down his tousled brown hair. Hatless as usual, he wore a dark fisherman's coat that made his boyishly good-looking face appear too pale. His friends had changed—and so had he. He felt bitterness trying to make its home in his heart for the first time. Why did bad things have to happen? It was an eternal question. Jules knew that life went on. But he also knew that nothing would ever be the same. 

He was startled to see Phileas watching him with lifeless green eyes as if he could read the young man's very thoughts. Tall and handsome, Phileas could easily dominate a room—or a small carriage—with his charm and cutting wit. But that was before. 

There had been other opportunities he could have ended it all with no intervention. A misplaced kitchen knife, a wild horse ride, a misstep off a balcony; but something was making him hang on. 

__

Of course, Jules realized. _The report._

The carriage swayed in the rain as the dark mare trotted on. 

From her vantage point on the crest of a nearby hill, a young woman watched the carriage disappear into the rain. She pulled her coarse, woolen cloak tightly closed and walked back into the woods. 

__

Not today, she thought, _but soon_.

The roaring fire in Chatsworth's small office made the atmosphere almost claustrophobic. The head of the British Secret Service walked behind the enormous desk that dominated the room and surveyed his three visitors. Fogg stared blankly, Verne was a picture of grief, and the other man—Fogg's valet, he believed—stoically stood to the side, awaiting a word from his master.

Chatsworth had been dreading this interview ever since he promised Fogg complete disclosure of the events in Ireland. Chatsworth had read his agents' follow-up report with disappointment; its conclusions didn't satisfy him. However, giving a loose cannon such as Phileas Fogg even documents such as these wasn't wise. But it hadn't been his idea. The order had come from the top.

"Please sit," he gestured. Reluctantly, Phileas sat on a hard-backed chair in front of the desk; Jules and Passepartout remained standing. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner pulsed through the thick air.

"Our findings." Chatsworth slid a plain folder across the bare desktop. 

Phileas blinked rapidly and picked it up. He thumbed through the pages silently. Chatsworth considered Sir Boniface's eldest son unstable at best, so he warily eyed the distance between them. There was no telling how a man of Phileas' temperament might react.

"And exactly whom did you have investigate?" Phileas' voice was emotionless.

"Simon. Carlson. They were very thorough," the balding man answered.

Phileas nodded his approval of the agents, then paused. "It says, 'Willful murder by person or persons unknown.'"

"Yes." Chatsworth mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

Phileas' eyes bore into him. "You don't want me to know whom you suspect?" 

"Do you blame me?" 

Chatsworth's reply startled Jules. It was unlike Sir Jonathan to be so candid. Ever since he took over the service—a position Phileas had been groomed for by his father, the agency's founder—Chatsworth had reduced defending the realm into a political chess game. He assigned agents to cases as rewards or punishments. His reports couched facts to best reflect on him. And he considered having a female agent in his employ to be a large thorn in his side. 

A small sneer played at the corner of Phileas' mouth. "Don't trouble yourself, Chatsworth. That won't stop me."

"Fogg, we're doing everything in our power to find this villain," Chatsworth said peevishly.

Phileas shot him a look of disdain and disbelief, which quickly was replaced by the haunted expression Jules had grown accustomed to. As Phileas stood to go, Chatsworth held up his hand. "There's one thing more. Simon recovered this from the river."

Phileas went white as the older man took a leather belt from a desk drawer. Now empty of all its "tools," the belt was a sad reminder of its owner and her infamous leather outfit. Phileas held it like it might shatter into a million pieces.

__

Why didn't he return the belt earlier? Is this some sort of power play? Jules felt intense dislike for the aging bureaucrat.

Passepartout had Phileas' coat and hat ready, but his master focused only on the belt. 

"She was a loyal servant of Her Majesty," Sir Jonathan said as Phileas left the room.

"You must feel this loss keenly," Jules commented sharply. 

"Yes, thank you," Chatsworth said, ignoring the sarcasm. "I've never approved of female agents, but Rebecca Fogg was very good at her job. Verne," he added softly, "try to keep _him_ from doing something foolish. As much as I may dislike Fogg, for his late father's sake I'd hate to see him in prison—or worse—for whatever retribution we both know he's planning."

Jules looked at Chatsworth in dismay, then hurried down the hallway without saying goodbye. The old man's concern was surprising. And the request? How could he possibly accomplish such an assignment? 

The ride home was long and quiet. The wind had picked up, dropping curtains of rain. Passepartout had always liked the sounds of a storm. It reminded him of stories he had heard as a boy of his pirate ancestors braving rough seas. But he knew from this day forward he'd only think of Miss Rebecca when the skies darkened. 

Phileas sat statuelike, the report and Rebecca's belt carefully resting on his lap. Fragmented thoughts darted through his pounding head. Here was a tangible piece of Rebecca's existence. And here were documents saying she was dead. How could these objects represent so much more than they actually were? How could she be gone?

Receiving the report brought finality to the past month for Phileas. His anger, previously hidden beneath a drunken stupor, now bubbled just beneath the surface. 

He bounded from the carriage after arriving home and announced he wanted to be alone. After striding into his study, Phileas poured a whiskey and began reading. He would commit every word, every fact to memory. The need for revenge was like hot coals burning in his gut. He longed to rage against the entire world, but he would be satisfied in spilling the blood of the one who ended Rebecca's life so brutally.

He tried to focus on the words that leaped and danced across the page. Rebecca's mission was to learn what she could about a Finian cell in Ireland that rumors claimed was plotting an attack on Her Majesty. The last contact she had with Chatsworth was to report she was to meet with a very good informant. 

With shaking hands, Phileas reached for his drink. On the third night Rebecca was in town, a woman was heard screaming for help. Several townspeople saw her on the arched stone bridge over the River Liffey. The woman had long red hair and wore an odd leather outfit. An assailant dressed in black caught her and strangled her. Then he tossed her body over the parapet. A few village men pursued him, but the killer had disappeared—and the current had taken the woman. The local police found nothing. 

__

As did I, Phileas thought miserably and emptied his glass. Within minutes of that fateful wire, he, Jules, and Passepartout had taken the _Aurora_ to Ireland to disprove Rebecca's death and bring her home. But it had been in vain.

Something about the report struck him as wrong—he just didn't know what. And tonight wouldn't be the night he'd figure it out. He locked the door and poured himself another drink.

The staff had long since gone to bed. Verne had turned in, too. Passepartout, ever devoted, slept on the settee outside the study door.

Phileas sat on the expensive Persian rug. In one hand was an empty decanter; in the other an over-filled glass dribbled on the floor. His jacket and waistcoat were on a chair, his cravat undone, his shoes…well, he couldn't remember where they were.

"You're drunk," Rebecca announced accusingly, her crinoline petticoats swishing as she walked across the room.

"Not really," he replied, watching her sit down on a delicate Chippendale chair. 

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "This really has to stop."

"What? Our meeting like this? We wouldn't if we'd found…." His voice trailed off.

"My body? Yes, but then you'd be drunk in a graveyard somewhere," she smiled. "No, I meant you have to stop drinking as much as you do."

"Are you my conscience now?"

"I always was," she replied. She was wearing his favorite outfit—a dark blue silk with black embroidery.

"You're a mouthy ghost. Fine, I'll stop," he replied, taking another sip. "Tomorrow."

"And what will be different tomorrow?"

"I'm going to work," he answered softly. He got to his feet and picked the file off a table. "I don't suppose you have any helpful leads?"

Rebecca shook her head. "Sorry."

"That's alright," he slurred. The room turned on its axis, and he slipped into a chair. "Rebecca, I pledge that I will kill whomever did this, no matter how long it takes. I will avenge you. Until then…until I can join you…you won't leave me, will you?" His plaintive plea was barely a whisper.

"I'll be here for as long as you want me," she replied. "Passepartout needs to put you to bed. Please cooperate this time."

"I will," he promised like a child. 

She was gone as the clock struck an ungodly late—or early—hour. Phileas attempted to summon Passepartout.

"Phileas!" Rebecca's voice was now sad, frightened. He jumped to his feet too quickly, and promptly sat back down, head in hands.

"Phileas…"

"Rebecca!" he called out. But she wasn't there.

"Help me," the voice whispered.

__

I am going mad, Phileas thought as he dropped into the dark world of unconsciousness.

****

"Think therefore on revenge, and cease to weep."—Wm. Shakespeare, _King Henry the Sixth_

Jules entered the kitchen early the next day to find Passepartout humming as he rapidly whisked several eggs into a cheery yellow froth. Cook sat at the table peeling potatoes. She often obliged the master's valet when he got it into his head to prepare something special for Mr. Fogg.

"Good morning," Jules said to them both, putting a few blueberry muffins into his coat pockets.

"Ah, good morning, Master Jules! You sneaking muffins? We have much food!"

"Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly. "An old starving-student habit."

"Have you hunger?"

"Not yet. Whom are you cooking for?"

"For master!" he answered happily, pouring the eggs into a hot skillet.

Jules' jaw fell. "Phileas is eating?"

The valet grinned ear to ear. "He wakes and dresses before Passepartout even running a hot bath. He says, 'Bring me my paper,' just like before times. He not ask for food but I cooking. I make him Eggs ala Jean."

"Oh."

"You are sad? Of master returning to himself? Of master getting better?" Passepartout asked, confused.

"No…well, yes. Fogg isn't getting better. He's 'himself' again because he has Chatsworth's report. He will hunt down Rebecca's killer. After that…."

Passepartout's face fell. "After that, master has no living reasons."

The two men stood silently as the eggs hissed and spat. Cook continued to work, pretending not to listen. Finally, Jules said, "You and I will keep him safe."

Passepartout nodded and turned back to the stove. Jules left wishing he could have sounded more confident.

The morning was foggy, but the sun valiantly fought to shine through. Jules walked across Shillingworth Magna's sweeping green lawn toward the woods. Fall was in the air. Under frigid skies, many trees had lost their leaves. Piles of brown and dull gold gloomily waited to be burned. A feeling of isolation rolled out of the woods, over the lawn, and enveloped Jules in waves.

"Mornin', Master Verne." Soames the head gardener tipped his cap as Jules passed. 

"Good morning. How's your wife?"

"She's in much better health, sir, thank you for asking." Soames stopped clipping the hedge. "Best not wander too far into the woods. Jackson the stable boy told me he seen some gypsies."

"Gypsies?"

"Yes, he seen a girl wandering in the woods. He called for her to stop, but she ran off."

"Thank you, Soames. I'll keep an eye out." Jules left the manicured gardens for the wilder forest path past the stables. It wouldn't be the first time gypsies had camped on the estate. However, as he approached the riding path, thoughts of intruders were pushed away by memories of Rebecca. How many times had he ridden here with her, he on his favorite young stallion and she on her white mare? More than he could remember. 

For a hopeful writer, Jules was strangely at a loss for words to express his grief—and he had even fewer to describe the magnificent Rebecca Fogg. With her flowing red-gold hair, cornflower-blue eyes, and porcelain skin, she was the perfect Englishwoman. But she was so much more—a government agent, a skilled fighter, a study in bravery. He had loved her, though she thought of him as a younger brother. Jules knew, in time, his memories would be a consolation, but now they were like daggers in his heart. Involuntarily, he patted the breast pocket of his coat to feel another letter from his family urging him to return to the university. But he couldn't leave Phileas in this state. His friend was like a coiled spring, ready at any moment to fly.

The air was heavy with dampness and dark mosses. Jules shoved his hands into his pockets and watched the low hanging clouds drift in among the trees, separating them like ghostly fingers. The sun peeked through arching tree branches that crosshatched the sky. Jules walked a distance just listening to the forest sounds until a loud cracking noise from behind a large chestnut tree rent the thick air. "Who's there?"

Slowly, a young woman with fawn-like eyes stepped from behind the massive trunk. She was a small creature, only coming to his shoulder. She had the tired look of someone who had grown up poor. Light brown curls framed her pretty but thin face. She nervously clutched a black satchel. Her dark cloak was soiled, and she looked hungry.

"Please, Mr. Fogg. I don't mean no disrespect in talking to you here. I tried to go to the big house, but I was turned away. Please listen to what I have to say." 

"What's your name?" Jules asked.

"Margaret. Margaret Slater, sir."

"Miss Slater, I'm not…"

"Sir!" she interrupted. "You may not think you'd be interested in what a person like me might say, but please hear me out!"

Overcome, the girl swayed until Jules' strong arms braced her. He helped her to a small bench framed by rhododendron bushes. "Are you hungry? This is rather smashed, but I'm sure it's still good." He handed her a muffin.

She eyed him cautiously, wondering why the head of the estate carried food in his pocket. 

"Now listen: I'm not Phileas Fogg. Wait!" he cried as Margaret stood in alarm. "I'm a friend of his, Jules Verne. If you tell me what it is you'd like him to know, I will gladly make sure to tell him."

"I need to speak to him!" she declared with spirit. "It's very important!"

Jules hesitated. Phileas was not in any condition to meet a demanding stranger. But the girl clearly had been exposed to the elements. At the very least, Jules could offer her a good meal. 

"Why don't you come with me?" he asked gently. 

Phileas stared at the young woman, who was no more than 20 years of age. She sat on the long wooden bench at the preparatory table in the kitchen. In front of her was a plate loaded with fried potatoes and scrambled eggs; he recognized them as leftovers from Passepartout's breakfast feast. The way she averted her eyes; her simple blue dress; and her rough, reddened hands told him she was most likely in service somewhere. But from what Verne had hastily said, this slight girl had a stubborn streak that made her a formidable force.

"I understand you made quite a fuss about wanting to talk to me, Miss Slater. Well, I'm listening." 

Not sensing anger in her host, Margaret hesitantly smiled. "Thank you, sir. I work in the household of Sir Charles Weatherly—I see you know of him. I've been the upstairs maid since last fall. 

"Well, here's the main of it: In April, my sister, Catherine, married and moved to Ireland. He was a scoundrel and left her penniless, but she found work at a local pub. Then, last month, I got word she'd gone missing. Just vanished! So, I took all my savings—and borrowed some—to find her.

"I searched her room and the town but found nothing." She stood and began to pace. "It was like she was there one night, then had just disappeared. The constable was no use, no use at all! To him she was just another poor nobody with no family or connections. But that weren't true, sir! She has me!"

Phileas stood near the fire and considered the young woman thoughtfully. "I'm very sorry, Miss Slater, but I fail to see how your circumstances relate to me."

"Because of this!" She reached into her satchel and thrust a battered newspaper at him. "Because Catherine was in Leixlip a month ago! Because Catherine looks just like _her_!"

The newspaper shook in Phileas' unsteady hands. Jules peered over Phileas' shoulder to see the rough pen-and-ink drawing of Rebecca the paper had run with her obituary. 

"It's a sad coincidence, no doubt," Phileas recovered his voice.

"Coincidence? That my sister and your cousin are in the same town, at the same time—and thems practically twins?" Margaret asked incredulously. "That my Catherine disappears and your cousin is murdered?"

"What are you implying, Miss Slater?" Jules asked. 

She shook her head, near tears. "I don't know. It just seemed too cruel. Then I thought, maybe Mr. Fogg could help me. He knows the right sort of people. They'd listen to him."

To Jules' surprise, Phileas said: "We're traveling to Ireland tomorrow by my airship. We could make some inquiries on your behalf."

"Oh, sir! That would be so kind!" Margaret exclaimed.

Phileas waved off her thanks. "Finish your meal."

"Master, be careful," Passepartout whispered as the three men left the kitchen. "She may be a tricking person. She may not be sisters!"

Phileas looked tired. "I'm well aware this could be some type of confidence artist out for money…somehow," he said. "I plan to communicate with Sir Weatherly this very hour."

"This trip is somewhat of a surprise," Jules commented.

"Is it?" Fogg asked, his mind already elsewhere. "Passepartout, I need to send some wires."

****

"Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head."—Wm. Shakespeare, _Titus Andronicus_

The _Aurora_ lifted off under Passepartout's expert handling. Unsubstantial strands of clouds bowed beneath the ship as it cut a path in the blue sky.

Phileas stood on the prow, a solitary figure gazing into an empty horizon. Not only did his heart ache, but his mind, body—every fiber of his being was painfully learning to exist without Rebecca. He had always planned not to outlive Rebecca by very long, never wanting to feel what surged through him now. Alcohol had gotten him through the past month, but now he felt her death shattering him inch by inch.

He never had been one to suffer the ill effects of stopping the drink—most likely because he had never completely quit before. He swallowed down the queasy taste in his mouth and shut his eyes.

Phileas' mood silently swung from bitter grief to self-recrimination to all-consuming rage. Retribution would be his motivation for living now. He owed it to her. He would focus only on that. But every once in a while, his mind touched on a deep well of regrets of things not spoken. It was then that he craved escape the most, but he fiercely ignored the yearning. He had to remain in complete control, to think clearly and find the killer. But once this was done, Phileas planned to give over to all his baser instincts.

They had been on the _Aurora_ immediately after Rebecca went missing; still, it hit him anew to enter the airship without her. On a table was the book she'd been reading. Her light blue wrap was carefully folded over the arm of a chair. Her lavender scent, now stale, still hung in the air. She had been alive and well when they had dropped her off outside the post town of Leixlip in County Kildare.

"Phileas, this will be a quick mission. Just fact-finding," she had assured him.

"I'd feel better accompanying you," he had protested.

"But that meeting in London with your bankers, albeit dull, is very important. You must go. I will be fine." She had patted him on the arm and was gone.

When he returned to London, his meeting was cancelled. And he never saw Rebecca again. 

Passepartout kept the ship on course with a heavy heart. He had no doubt Jules was right: Phileas would take revenge on everyone connected to Miss Rebecca's murder. And he wouldn't stop that from happening. 

He glanced over at his master. He cared more for Phileas than for any other master. In all his many careers, Jean had never felt more alive than he did with the Foggs. The lands he had seen, the missions they had gone on! Miss Rebecca had encouraged his experiments, and his master had reluctantly let him try out his inventions. But it wasn't just the excitement of being Phileas Fogg's valet that made him completely loyal. He had witnessed the depth of his master's compassion, bravery, and dignity. And he had seen Phileas' self-torture over real or imagined responsibility for past losses. He wanted nothing more than for his master to find some small portion of peace—and perhaps happiness. However, with Miss Rebecca now dead, that hope was dead, too. For he had also observed Phileas' true feelings for her.

He glanced up to see Jules headed toward the lab, lost in thought. Passepartout felt a fresh wave of grief at seeing his young friend so sad.

Jules entered the lab and sat on Passepartout's chair. How fortunate he, a poor student, had been to meet these people, to have become part of their family, if not by blood then by devotion. And now that Rebecca was gone, he felt called upon to fulfill a more significant role. Not just to be young Jules, wandering in from university or Jules the young genius, needing protection. Phileas needed him more now than the older man ever realized.

Phileas had summarized the report for him and Passepartout before they left Shillingworth Magna. The agents hadn't learned anything significant, but there were several eyewitness accounts of the murder. Jules wanted to get a look at those descriptions. _Perhaps if I remind Phileas of how I can visualize events_. A loud clattering from the large pantry brought Jules out of his reverie. He opened the doors to find Margaret shrinking away.

"What are you doing in there?" he demanded, pulling her out. 

The young woman nervously smoothed her hair down. "Don't be angry, Mr. Verne. It's just…I had to come with you. I have to look for Catherine!"

Jules stared at her young, melancholy face and for a split second wondered what she would look like with styled hair and fashionable clothes. Ashamed of himself, he said: "We have to tell Mr. Fogg you're here. I wouldn't be at all surprised if he turns the ship around."

But Phileas didn't appear angry or even surprised that Margaret was a stowaway.

"Miss Slater, I do understand the desire to find out all you can about a loved one's fate. But what we're looking into is dangerous. My cousin was murdered."

Margaret had a gleam in her eyes. "Sir, no one pays any attention to a girl like me. I'm invisible. I can go places and hear things that you and yours never could."

Phileas smiled briefly. "You may be correct. However, I have to insist you stay safe."

She nodded her head. "I'll do just what you say." 

"Very well. You may stay," Phileas acquiesced. Passepartout looked at his master in surprise. 

"But master! What about her being confident?" he whispered.

"One of those wires you sent was to Weatherly. His reply confirmed her claims."

Overhearing them, Margaret turned and smiled. "What I said is true. Every bit of it. And now we'll find Catherine."

"Miss Slater," Jules said kindly, "she's been missing for a month without you hearing from her."

"But now I have hope. Everyone needs hope," she replied sincerely.

Passepartout and Jules' eyes automatically went to Phileas, who seemed to drop into a black mood. He abruptly stood and went to the observation deck.

"Did I say something wrong?" Margaret asked quietly.

"No. Master is no angrier at you. He just knows what hopeful thing you said is true," Passepartout explained. Margaret turned to Jules for a translation.

"Mr. Fogg feels he has no hope." 

****

"Every guilty deed

Holds in itself the seed

Of retribution and undying pain."—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The next morning, the _Aurora_ touched down at the coordinates Phileas had provided Passepartout—an empty meadow just south of Dublin. The locale was very isolated.

As far as the eye could see, gently sloping hills in varying shades of green alternated with dark woods while wooly clouds provided a cool canopy. 

Margaret hurried down the stairs to the dirigible's windows. "Why didn't we land in Leixlip?" she asked.

Just finishing his breakfast, Jules looked at the young woman in surprise. Last night, Phileas had instructed her to sleep in Rebecca's room and find something suitable to wear from his cousin's trunk of clothing. Margaret had selected a dark skirt in shades of ocean blue, but because Rebecca was several inches taller than she was, Margaret had made it fit by cinching in the waistband with a dark belt. She wore a crisp, white blouse and her curls were pulled back with a blue ribbon. Jules thought her eyes sparkled like topazes.

He swallowed a bite of toast. "We went there right after learning about Rebecca. Phileas had Passepartout practically land in the town square," he explained. "We made quite an impression on the townspeople…and I'd guess Fogg wants to be more concealed."

"Miss Margaret would be eating?" Passepartout called from the galley, all traces of his former suspicions gone. 

"Yes, thank you." She awkwardly sat at the table as Passepartout placed a bowl of hot cereal before her. "I've never been served before!" she giggled.

Phileas strode into the room and sat in his usual chair. "I hope the food is to your liking, Miss Slater."

She turned crimson. "Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Will you join us, Fogg?"

"Not this morning," he said curtly, the idea of food making him slightly ill.

"Where are we?" Jules asked. 

"We currently are on one of the farms belonging to John Baker, a former colleague of mine. We won't be disturbed," Phileas explained. "I'm going to meet with him now."

"You don't plan to go to Leixlip?" Margaret inquired.

Phileas stood to his full height of more than six feet and adjusted his sleeves and lapels. "Not at this time. But Jules—you go. And be disguised as a local. With this famine, I'm sure poor strangers in town wouldn't arouse any suspicions. You can probably learn more than Simon or Carlson did. I'm afraid, however, that you'll have to walk several miles."

"Fogg, I was with you when we were in Leixlip before. Someone might recognize me," Jules protested.

"Ah, Master Jules, you leave disguising to Passepartout!" the valet exclaimed. "I have many ways at looking different."

"But what is our plan?" Jules pursued. "After I return, what will we do next?"

Phileas didn't answer. Jules was about to ask again but a small shake of Passepartout's head warned him off.

Jules understood instantly and wished he hadn't spoken. Phileas appeared to be back to normal but was far from it. How could there be a plan? Only a few days ago, Phileas had been a shell of his former self.

"I will speak to Baker and get the lay of the land," Phileas said in a strained voice. "Though I'm sure he would enjoy having us as houseguests, I feel it's best if we stay on the dirigible. To answer your question, Verne, I do not have a plan fully formulated. Passepartout, stay with the _Aurora_ until I return."

"But, master!" Now it was Passepartout's turn to object. He didn't want Phileas to go out alone; the heavy bags under his eyes told Passepartout that his master hadn't slept well.

A swift retort was ready to leap from his tongue, but Phileas stopped himself. His loyal valet, whose company he had grown to appreciate and depend on over the years, hadn't complained once during the past hellish month. In fact, Phileas realized, he had no right to blame either Passepartout or Verne for their words. They didn't know what to expect from him.

In an uncharacteristic move, Phileas patted Passepartout on the shoulder in a familial way. "I will return shortly," he said. 

Passepartout reluctantly helped Phileas on with his coat. "Yes, master. I making Master Jules look like begging peasants."

Margaret grimaced at the thought while Jules suppressed a smile. Phileas nodded and was gone.

"Wait here," Passepartout said excitedly and went to his lab.

Jules walked to the large windows, quietly brooding. He had only wanted to help Phileas, not upset him. He had thought if he could lead part of the investigation, it could take a weight off his friend's shoulders.

Margaret stayed at the table, studying the young gentleman. He was as handsome as Mr. Fogg, but in a different way. Mr. Fogg's aristocratic bone structure was accented by piercing green eyes and long, pointed sideburns. He had a velvet voice, elegant hands, and dark hair spiked with gray—just how an English gentleman should be, she thought. Jules, on the other hand, was close to her age with a friendly, approachable air to him. His liquid brown eyes, framed by long lashes, dominated his face but didn't take away from his full, sensual lips. 

"What you said about Mr. Fogg not having hope—is that because of Rebecca?" she asked.

"He was closer to her than to anyone else on earth. He misses her terribly. We all do." Jules looked wistfully out at the lush landscape.

"What was she like?" Margaret cautiously inquired. 

He returned to the table. "Brave, kind, beautiful…."

"Were she and Mr. Fogg…oh, I'm sorry. It's none of my business," she said hastily, noting how Jules' jaw clinched at her words.

"Here it is! Peasants!" Passepartout declared, carrying an armful of clothing and several bottles. "And a new formula to make your hair the brightest yellow!"

Jules coughed. "I don't think the brightest yellow works well in Ireland."

"I'll use it," said Margaret. Both men stared at her. "Well, Mr. Fogg didn't say I couldn't go to Leixlip. He didn't mention me at all. I'll change into my old clothes and no one will notice me."

"Miss Margaret, I don't think…" Jules began.

"I'm going," she said in a tone that would brook no disagreement.

John Baker stood on the veranda and watched his visitor walk up the drive. The caller was tall, taking long steps and swinging his walking stick rhythmically. But there was a droop to the broad shoulders and the face was downcast. John didn't need a spyglass to know it was Phileas Fogg. 

He had expected Phileas to be at his door in due time. It was only logical that his old friend would come to Ireland to hunt down his cousin's murderer. And it was only logical that he start with John Baker.

"Who is that, my dear?" Mary Murphy joined her son and peered forward. She was youthful for her 60 years of age—still gifted with clear thought, a young countenance, and a firm voice. But her eyes had been giving her some trouble. 

"It's Phileas," he replied quietly.

"Phileas," she echoed. It wasn't that she disliked John's former partner at the British Secret Service; on the contrary, Mary was eternally grateful to him. But in her mind there were two distinct eras in her only son's life: his years in the service and his years post-service. She had drawn a line between the two—and Phileas belonged in the past.

"Will he be staying with us?" she asked lightly.

John shook his head. "He wired to ask if he could land his airship in the south fields."

"He's here about his poor cousin's death," Mary speculated.

"Undoubtedly." John opened the veranda door, and his mother obligingly went back into the house. Mary took no offence at John's dismissal. Reminders of the past made him pensive. Seeing his former partner no doubt stirred up many memories.

John dropped his cigar butt on the flagstones and absently stepped on it. He wasn't as tall as Phileas but still conveyed a sense of strength—in spite of the empty tweed jacket sleeve pinned to his shoulder.

Sir Boniface Fogg certainly made his share of mistakes, but he was right on the mark when he paired Phileas and John. Both were new to the service, and their very different personalities complemented one another. Phileas was upper crust; John was working class. Phileas had excellent instincts; John was a logical thinker. Phileas used his charm to learn secrets; John could find out almost everything by talking to someone in a pub. Phileas had a dark nature; John was an optimist.

They probably could've gone on together for many successful years but for a botched mission in Egypt—the last mission for John. He escaped with his life, thanks to Phileas, but lost his left arm and the sight in one eye. His field career was over. 

After recovering in a Cairo hospital, John had spent several weeks incredibly drunk, then decided to face what fate had dealt him. Though it was painful to his ego, John accepted the office work Sir Boniface helped him transition to. Phileas stopped by often to keep John in the loop, but soon both men found these meetings awkward. The visits became few and far between.

However, John still closely followed Phileas' career—and that of his brother, Erasmus, and cousin, Rebecca. It was soon after Erasmus had died and Phileas had quit the service that John decided to leave London and move in with his mother. Her second husband recently deceased, she was left a large Irish estate to run. John shifted into the role of manager with the ease he brought to the rest of his life. 

Now his former partner in the spy game was at the veranda steps, offering a broken smile but a strong handshake.

"Would you care for a drink?" John asked as they entered his private study.

"Tea, thank you," Phileas replied, taking a seat on a sturdy leather chair. A young brown-and-white spaniel jumped up and looked at him dolefully. He absently scratched the pup's ears as John pulled the long cord by the mantle. Phileas noted with envy that John's black hair was untouched by gray. 

"Phileas Fogg not drinking?" John teased. His unusually light blue eye sparkled; the other was covered with a black patch. 

"I'm here about Rebecca. I need information."

"Quite so," John said as he sat down. "Ask me anything."

Phileas took a paper from his coat pocket. "Your name is conspicuously absent."

John scanned the page briefly. "That's because no one came to speak to me."

"Chatsworth never fails to prove he is an idiot," Phileas seethed.

"Not necessarily, old chap. Chatsworth hates to be shown up."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"Pride, I would imagine."

Phileas interrupted, "I'm not following you."

"Ah, here is Mrs. Hudson," John announced as a small woman with grizzled white hair brought in the tea. After she had poured them each a cup, she left as quietly as she had entered. John took a sip. "Blast, she let it steep too long! The Irish cannot make a decent cup of tea."

"John," Phileas prodded, fidgeting with his cup.

"Chatsworth contacted me two months ago. He had heard that a Finian cell was in the area of Leixlip and that a man named John Kelly was bankrolling them. named John Kelly. He wanted to find out what I might have heard since his regular Dublin agent had been removed a week earlier."

"That would have been McGinty?"

"Right." 

"What did you tell him?"

"I laughed. John Kelly was a Dubliner who resisted the English—100 years ago. Whoever fed Chatsworth that information was playing a joke at his expense. He insisted he had reliable sources, but I insulted the quality of his intelligence," John explained.

"Couldn't the name have been a coincidence?"

John nodded. "Of course. There are many Kellys in Leixlip. But the fact remains there aren't any Finian movements in those parts."

"He sent Rebecca anyway!" Phileas sputtered, causing the puppy to jump down in fright.

"Yes," John said, watching his friend cautiously. "You may remember that Chatsworth and I never got along when I was in the service."

Phileas let loose a stream of harsh curses and jumped to his feet. "Forget his motives in sending her for a moment. Why didn't Chatsworth have Carlson or Simon speak to you when they investigated?"

"I don't know," John answered honestly. "But Phileas, I wouldn't have had any information for them. If I'd known anything connected to Rebecca's death, I would've contacted you directly."

Drained of energy and emotion, Phileas sat down like a puppet with its strings cut. Concerned, John rose. "Good God, man. You're on the edge of a breakdown."

Phileas looked up and laughed. "Perhaps I am. But, if God is good, I will be sane enough to kill the bastard who did this."

"Killing him won't bring Rebecca back," John said solemnly.

"I know that!" Phileas' anger burst like water behind a weak dam. "Of course it won't bring her back! Nothing will! But I will not have her death go unavenged!"

"Is this what Rebecca would have wanted you to do?"

Phileas threw his hands up in exasperation. "This is something I _have_ to do, can't you see that? Don't you see? I should have been there!"

With his guilt admitted, Phileas had to fight tears. A stilted speech followed. "If I had been there, she would be safe now. I should have been there. It was my duty. I promised. To protect her. Now I must find him. The killer. I must."

John waited a few minutes before speaking. "Let me check with a few people about this purported Finian cell. I'm positive there has been no activity, but I'll ask. You can rely on me. I will go to Dublin this afternoon." 

Phileas looked at his old friend gratefully. "Thank you. But what you've told me already has deepened this mystery. I have to find out who the Finian source was she was going to meet. And who, in God's name, killed her?"

****

"Something of vengeance I had tasted for the first time; as aromatic wine it seemed…its after flavour, metallic and corroding, gave me a sensation as if I had been poisoned."—Charlotte Bronte, _Jane Eyre_

A dark carriage tore along the walled road to Leixlip. With a complete disregard for simple decency, the driver savagely brought his whip down on the young steed's back. A deep laughter rumbled from beyond the darkened windows. It was no wonder the occupant and driver didn't care about the young couple that was forced to jump to the side to escape the pounding hooves.

"Are you alright?" Jules asked anxiously.

"Fine. Who could that have been?" Margaret angrily demanded, dusting off her dress.

"Maybe we'll find out in town," he replied as they continued walking.

Margaret grinned at the reddish hair peeking out from under Jules' cap. "I liked your hair better before."

Jules felt a slow blush creep up his cheeks. "Me, too. But this color is better than yellow, which, by the way, I'm glad you didn't take."

She pulled her cloak closed. "Brown hair, brown eyes on a skinny little thing like me? No one notices me."

Jules was tempted to say she certainly stood out in a crowd but thought better of it. "Tell me about yourself. And Catherine."

"We grew up in London. My father was a shopkeeper—a toyshop, in fact. Catherine and I went every day to see the toys in the window. Catherine loved this one castle with its turrets and flags. She got all dreamy, picturing herself a princess and riding off with the handsome prince," she reminisced. 

Her tone changed. "Then Father died after a long bout of croup. He owed many debts on the shop. Mother began taking in sewing and laundry, but it weren't enough. She sent us to live with Aunt Elizabeth. Mum died four months later."

"I'm so sorry," Jules said sympathetically.

Margaret acknowledged his gesture with a smile. "Aunt Elizabeth had many children but was kind. We stayed with her for years. Then Catherine got a good governess position in London." 

Her narrative broke off as she bent down to pick up a twig. "She was busy at her job and was courted by several respectable young men. Her letters described the places she'd go, the things she was doing. Then it was time for me to be on my own. I never finished schooling because I helped Aunt Elizabeth with the children, so it was either work in the mills or go into service."

"Tell me about this man Catherine married," Jules suggested.

She scowled. "He was no good through-and-through. His name is Colm O'Malley. He could charm the skin off a snake. He promised her fine clothes, a good home—the life she always wanted. After they married, I could tell from her letters that she weren't happy. They lived in a rented room. Colm drank too much. Then he left her. She was brokenhearted. And now she's gone.

"But now I have hope," she said brightly. "I will find my Catherine."

The couple walked on in silence.

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Verne?"

"Certainly, but call me Jules."

"Why would anyone want to kill Miss Rebecca? Why was she in Leixlip?"

Margaret was a bright young woman. Jules had wondered when she would ask this, so he had a reply ready. "Rebecca did special government work, which I really can't talk about. She may have angered enemies of Her Majesty."

"Oh!" Margaret exclaimed in alarm. "I thought she may have been killed by a madman! Her killer was someone against Queen Victoria? I never would have thought it."

Jules nodded. "With the Foggs involved, things are always more than they seem."

******************************************************************

Phileas was glad he had taken John up on his offer of the use of a horse. Just thinking about the long walk back to the Aurora exhausted him. He prodded the mare into a trot; she tossed her head from side to side and obliged her rider by quickening the pace. She also carried two satchels of food John had insisted Phileas take.

The morning's events tumbled about in his mind like ice cubes shaken in a glass. As hard as he tried to process everything John had said, Phileas still felt like his head was going to split.

Suddenly his stomach lurched, and he yanked the horse to a stop. The rich green and brown earth came up swiftly as he jumped down and heaved into the bushes. Thoroughly sick, he collapsed on some downy soft grass. Phileas looked about vaguely for some instrument to end the misery of his grief and sobriety.

Instead he threw his head back and cried out like a soul descending to hell: "Rebecca!"

"Phileas…"

Was it a voice or the breeze in the treetops? It was as soft as a whisper. Phileas stood and walked into a clearing.

"Rebecca?" he called angrily. "I am not drunk! I am painfully sober. Either I am losing my mind, or your ghost had better appear right here and now!"

The sound of a woman crying seemed to echo around him. "Find me!"

Unable to endure any more, Phileas sank to his knees and brought both hands to his head. "Stop it! Stop it!"

The voice didn't speak again. Phileas wasn't sure how long he knelt there, but soon the horse nuzzled his ear. Slowly, he remounted.

Leixlip had all the charming qualities Jules imagined a small Irish town would have. After following the dull road for miles, he and Margaret turned a right angle and faced the Leixlip Bridge. It ran from a high bank on their side of the River Liffey to a low one on the town side. Deep, bending trees obscured their view of the east bank while on the opposite side the small town stretched lazily. The neat, washed steps of small houses; well-tended gardens; a tall church steeple; and the bucolic atmosphere made Jules smile; however, Margaret remained solemn.

"It's this was to The Old Hare pub where Catherine worked," she said and hurried over the bridge. "It's the last place anyone saw her."

Jules started to tell her he had been there before but stopped midway across the bridge. "It was here," he said softly. He looked at the worn stones, crossed by countless horses, wagons, people. The bridge had seen many years—and the death of his good friend. Saddened, Jules looked upriver. In the far distance he could see a small waterfall that sent clouds of mist skyward. 

Margaret, pained at her insensitivity, returned to his side. Following his gaze, she said: "Catherine said they call those falls the Salmon Run. Just east of there is a large estate of some kind. Look, you can almost see the top of a castle."

Jules nodded absently. "She died here. Right here."

"Jules, we will get out the truth," she assured him.

The Old Hare was close to the river on a corner. Its sign swung on rusty hinges.

Margaret stared at the small building and shivered. In spite of her pluck, she suddenly felt afraid to enter where her sister had worked. "I want to go to St. Mary's and say a prayer," she announced. 

"I'll meet you here." Jules watched her slim form disappear around the corner. Had it only been a few days since he met her in Shillingworth Magna's woods? 

He entered the pub expecting a dank, unfriendly interior. Instead he found a roaring fire in the hearth and the few occupants sitting near itwere laughing. He tipped his cap to them and sat at a table to the side.

An older woman with brown hair highlighted with fiery tones approached him. "You aren't from here." 

Not sure if it were a question or a statement, Jules simply nodded. 

"Been in here before?" she asked, pulling him an ale.

"No," he lied quietly.

She shot him a sidelong look but said nothing. "I'm Annie. You won't find work in these parts."

"Oh," he feigned disappointment. 

"You got a wife?" asked an older man who had been eavesdropping.

"No."

"Then look out for Annie!" he called and everyone roared.

"Be off with you, Gerald!" Annie yelled good-naturedly. She wiped Jules' table with a soiled rag and shook her head. "This is a good place, but we've had trouble of late."

She seemed like the type of person who would gladly talk, given the opportunity. "Is that right?" Jules asked with a masterful Irish accent.

"My, yes. A woman was killed—that's right, _killed_—practically outside my door! She was strangled on the Liffey Bridge, then drowned!"

"That's awful."

Annie continued as if she hadn't heard him. "It was a month ago when we had that bright-yellow full moon. We heard screaming. We ran out and saw the devil with his hands on her white throat. Then he threw the young woman off the bridge! Her red hair flowed around her as she fell. I about fainted dead away."

"That's awful." Jules felt ill, hearing Rebecca's death described in such a lurid way. 

Annie continued her narrative. "I knew her, too. Yes, I did. She was in here only a day or so earlier. Pleasant English lady. And she looked so much like Catherine!"

Jules ears perked up. "Who's Catherine?"

"She worked here. Sweet thing. Very sad because her no-good husband left her. Then she up and left. Probably moved on to Dublin."

"Did she leave before or after the murder?" he asked.

Annie thought hard. "It were before. Right before. Maybe only a few days. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Jules said and took a long drink. To die, alone, afraid—and then have no body for a proper funeral. No honor, no respect. Rebecca didn't deserve such a death, agent or not.

Angry, he called out, "Do any of you know who owns a black carriage with dark windows?"

There was a restless murmuring from the group at the fire.

"That would be the new tenant at the castle," Gerald said contemptuously.

"Castle?" 

"Leixlip Castle. It lords over the town on the other side where the Rye meets the Liffey!" said Annie. "The Cavendishes own it, but they haven't lived there in years. They do let it, and the new tenant is very, very rich. Or so we've heard."

"You haven't met him?" Jules asked. 

"By the stars, no. We haven't even seen him! Oh, the rumors that swirl around that man! People say he is very cruel. And he does ride to Dublin in a black carriage."

"How long has he been in town?" Something made the hairs on the back of Jules' neck stand on end.

"A month, I believe."

"No, woman, it's been two months!" Gerald piped up. 

"That's right, it's been two. We don't know his name, but people say it to be Kelly."

Determining he could learn no more that day, Jules finished his drink and went to find Margaret. He stood at The Old Hare's doorway and looked up and down the street. 

"Here I am!" she called.

Jules whirled around to see Margaret sitting six feet off the ground on top of a wood stack piled next to the pub's wall.

"How did you get up there?" he demanded.

"I climbed!" she smiled.

"Alright, why are you up there?"

"I'm talking to my new friend!" she declared.

Jules took a step backward to see a small boy around 10 years old with a toothy grin sitting between Margaret and the wall.

"Why don't you both come down?" he suggested. Margaret and the boy carefully made their way down the sloping stack.

"This is Gerald," Margaret introduced the lad. 

Jules shook his hand. "I just met a Gerald inside," he said.

The boy nodded knowingly. "That's my da. When he comes to drink, my ma sends me after to make sure he gets home. Annie doesn't like me inside, so I wait up there mostly."

"Gerald has a fine view of the bridge when he's up there," Margaret said deliberately.

"Ah," Jules said with full understanding. "Gerald, were you up there the night the lady was killed? The night of the bright-yellow full moon?"

"'Course I was! I seen it all," the boy declared. "I saw the woman run and the bad man kill her."

"Did you tell anyone about it?" Margaret asked.

Gerald shook his head. "There were thems two English policemen—I might have told them if they'd asked. But they didn't."

Margaret and Jules exchanged a quick glance. "Gerald, I knew the woman who died. And I very much want to know what you saw," Jules said.

Margaret knelt down so she could look directly into the boy's blue eyes. "Telling us could do some good."

Gerald kicked the toe of his worn boot in the dirt, then said slyly, "I'm awfully hungry."

She smiled. "We'll give you lots and lots of food. But you must keep this a secret. We don't want the bad man to know we're looking for him."

Gerald nodded. "Alright."

Margaret stood and paused, catching Jules looking at her.

"That was very clever of you," he said admiringly.

"Thank you." Margaret blushed. "I hope this leads somewhere."

"Should not a Christian pardon this offence,

And stifle in his heart all wish for vengeance?"—Moliere, _Tartuffe_

Phileas awoke with a start but didn't give any outward signs of it. He opened his eyes to full wakefulness and took in his surroundings quickly. It was already evening; the silver-gray twilight was melting into darkness. How had he gotten in bed? Oh yes, Passepartout. The fine little horse had delivered Phileas to the _Aurora_, though he was certain he had been more of a hindrance than a help to the animal. He remembered Passepartout mixing him something to drink.

"No alcohol," he had insisted.

Passepartout had shook his head. "No biting hairy dogs."

Even after giving that remark some thought, he still couldn't make sense of it. But he had drunk the odd smelling liquid and had fallen into a deep sleep. Now he felt quite better. His stomach was calm, and his head didn't hurt so badly.

Voices drifted up to him. Verne. Margaret. Passepartout. And a young, higher-pitched voice he couldn't identify. Phileas stood and changed into evening dress. 

He walked down the circular stairs slowly, still a little unsteady on his feet. At the table were Verne and Margaret with a small boy who was eating voraciously—hands reaching for bread, a cup of milk, and utensils with remarkable speed.

Phileas announced his presence. "Who is our young guest? And what on earth did you do to your hair, Verne?"

"Fogg, this is Gerald Dell. He's from a farm outside Leixlip," Jules explained. "And Passepartout colored my hair as part of my disguise."

"Quite, er, effective. Well done." Phileas chose to sit on his usual chair rather than join them. 

"Master, may I brings something?" Passepartout inquired.

"Thank you, Passepartout. Some tea, I would think. And perhaps later some of that stew everyone is enjoying."

Passepartout happily nodded and rushed to the galley.

"So, Gerald," Phileas began but stopped. He never really felt comfortable around children. They were unpredictable, so vulgar at times. Rebecca was much better with them. But he would try. He leaned forward. "Are you enjoying your meal?"

Gerald smiled broadly, revealing a mouthful of food. Phileas recoiled.

"Hasn't your ma taught you better manners than that?" Margaret scolded. "Now sit up proper, and chew your food!"

Gerald quickly obeyed. "Sorry, Miss Margaret."

"Will someone tell me why we are feeding this boy?" Phileas asked, peeved.

"He may have seen something important," Jules said softly.

Gerald nodded his head enthusiastically. "I did, sir. I saw it all."

"What, pray tell?"  


"The lady getting killed."

Phileas wasn't prepared for that response. He sat back and folded his hands. "Alright then. Let me hear your tale."

"Well, it was like this. Da was drinking late. I was outside The Old Hare on top of the wood pile."

"Which is at least six feet off the ground," Jules interjected.

"The moon was bright and full," Gerald continued. "I could see two people coming on the main road. I thought they were both men, 'cause they both wore pants. Then, one started running and screaming. It weren't no man. She ran to the bridge and kind of stopped. Then the other man started after her. He caught her on the bridge and grabbed her by the throat and shook her…like this."

Gerald demonstrated by shaking his cloth napkin until Passepartout yanked it from his hands.

"Then he picked her up and dropped her in the water. The men from the pub came running out, but he had gotten clean away."

The room was silent except for Phileas drumming his long, tapered fingers on the arms of his chair.

"Thank you, Gerald," he said and walked to the prow with Passepartout and Jules on his heels.

"What are you thinking, Fogg?" Jules asked.

"The boy said the killer 'dropped' her off the bridge. Not tossed, not threw, but dropped. That is significant."

"When my father taught me how to swim, he dropped me off the side of a dock," Jules mused.

"He dropped you because tossing you may have caused injury," Phileas asserted.

"Dropping mean no hurting?" Passepartout wondered. "Why would man kill Miss Rebecca, then worry about hurting?"

Phileas turned back into the salon.

"Gerald, are you sure that is all you remember?" he asked quietly.

The boy was done eating, now standing and stretching. Again, he looked to Margaret. "I have six hungry younger brothers and sisters at home."

"Mr. Passepartout could send food home with you," Margaret said. "But there are nicer ways to ask."

The boy looked downcast. "I'm sorry, Miss Margaret. You being so nice and all. I guess I can tell you."

"What?" Jules asked.

"I didn't tell nobody this neither, 'cause no one would believe me. But here it is: The two English policemen asked my da if he knew the English lady being killed on the bridge. But the lady that was killed weren't her."

"What do you mean?" Phileas demanded.

Gerald looked from one face to the next. "I seen it clear as day in that moonlight. It was the lady from the pub. Miss Catherine."

Margaret lost her balance and fell into Jules' arms. "What are you saying?" she cried.

"Miss Catherine," Gerald repeated slowly. "She worked in the pub a ways back. Always nice to me, she was. It was her that ran across the bridge."

The adults were stunned into silence. Fearing he had done wrong, Gerald reached for his cap. "I'm going now."

Passepartout came to his senses first. "I gets you food."

"Goodbye!" the boy shouted and ran from the dirigible.

Jules, still holding a tearful Margaret, spoke. "He must be mistaken."

"But it was a full moon. You said so yourself. From so high up, he would've seen," she whispered. "He would've seen her face."

Phileas cleared his throat. "The facts are against that theory. First, you said Catherine and Rebecca could've been twins. It would have been easy for Gerald to get them confused at night. Second, if Catherine were on the bridge, why would she have been wearing Rebecca's clothes?"

The strain was too much—Margaret burst into tears. With Jules' help, she went upstairs to lie down.

"Nothing makes sense!" he exclaimed upon returning. "Why would Rebecca be walking with this man, then go running for her life?"

"My God, that's it!" Phileas exclaimed, his eyes alight with excitement.

"What, master?" 

"There has always been something about Chatsworth's report that gnawed at me. In your experience, has either one of you ever known Rebecca to run from a fight? And run screaming from a fight?"

"Never!" the two men said in unison.

"She would have held her ground. She had on her fighting outfit, for God's sake! Why didn't I see this before?" Phileas smacked his forehead. How could he have been so blind?

"You're right, Fogg. Rebecca has faced much worse. Why would she have run from just one man?" Jules wracked his brain.

"Master, I am the devil," Passepartout declared.

"What?" Phileas exclaimed in exasperation. He did have his limits to tolerating Passepartout's creative use of the English language.

"I be the devil to ideas. If we know Miss Rebecca not run like a girl, then she was not Miss Rebecca!"

"I see," Jules joined in. "If we know Rebecca wouldn't have behaved that way, then the woman on the bridge couldn't have been Rebecca…and Gerald could be right. And if it were Catherine, someone got her to dress like Rebecca…and pretend to be killed!"

Phileas' breath was coming in short pants as if he had been running. "That would explain why the killer 'dropped' the woman, as Gerald put it. She really wasn't dead," he said slowly.

"It was play acting?" Passepartout suddenly lit up like a candle. "Then…then Miss Rebecca lives?"

Phileas could scarcely allow himself to think such a thought. "These theories are built on a small boy's recollection. All we know for certain is that Rebecca is gone."

"I know it's fantastic, Fogg, but it makes sense!" Jules was animated. "Catherine disappeared right before Rebecca did. I learned that today. It was Catherine on the bridge, faking Rebecca's death. The question is who would want to make us believe she was dead?"

Margaret sobbed into her pillow. She wiped her tears with her fingers and slowly crept to the doorway to listen to the conversation below. 

She cried silently as the men discussed their theories. _Catherine would never, never do something like that! But how are they to know? They barely know me!_

She reached into her cuff for a handkerchief, but it wasn't there. Looking around, she opened the top drawer of the bedside table. In the dim candlelight she saw the gleam of polished silver and black. She took out Rebecca's small Derringer and turned it over in her hands.

****

"Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion, 

scarce can endure delay of execution—

Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my soul in a moment."—William Cowper

Silence fell like an invisible rain the next morning, engulfing the _Aurora_. The three men sat in the salon, contemplating the previous night's discussion. Passepartout had made a light breakfast of scones, cheese, fruit, and tea, but his efforts went mainly untouched. Phileas stared out the window while Jules' measured footfalls echoed softly.

A brief knock at the door startled everyone. Passepartout cautiously opened it and smiled.

"Master Baker!" he exclaimed.

"Good to see you, Passepartout!" John replied. Phileas made a hasty introduction to Jules, who was interested to learn more about this man from Phileas' past.

"You may speak freely, John," Phileas said. "Did you learn anything in Dublin?"

John sat and faced the three men who sat in a semicircle in front of him.

"I talked to all my sources—from the men at my club to dock workers to the woman hauling coal in a bucket. There are Finian movements about, but none are in Leixlip."

"What means this, master?" Passepartout asked.

"It means we have pieces to a puzzle but have no idea how they fit together!" he replied and told John about their suppositions.

"Phileas, these ideas are based on 'ifs.' _If_ the boy saw correctly. _If_ the woman on the bridge was Catherine. _If_ Chatsworth's intelligence was wrong. Or right." John stood and poured himself a cup of tea. "Two facts remain: Rebecca is missing, and this Margaret's sister is missing."

"I know, I know, it's illogical!" Phileas exclaimed in frustration. "_If_ someone was murdered on the bridge. _If_ someone named Kelly is involved…  


"Kelly?" Jules interrupted.

"John Kelly. A local historical figure that Chatsworth believed was funding the Finians," Phileas explained.

"There may be a Kelly living in Leixlip Castle!" he exclaimed and told the others what he had heard at The Old Hare.

"Again, another if. Kelly is a very common name in these parts, young Verne," John said.

"But I can't escape the feeling of evil I have about this man," Jules said darkly. "Fogg, I feel this very strongly."

Phileas looked at him intently then turned to John. "Verne has ways of thinking about situations and the future like no one else. I would trust him just on his feeling."

Warmed at the compliment, Jules said excitedly: "The answer could be in Leixlip Castle! We need to go there!"

"Not so fast, Verne. We need to gather more information," Phileas cautioned. 

A loud clearing of a throat announced MargaretCatherine's entrance into the room. She again wore her blue dress and black cloak.

"Good morning," she said quietly.

"Mr. John Baker, may I present Miss Margaret Slater," Phileas introduced them.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. Is that your carriage outside?"

"Yes, it is."

"If it wouldn't be no trouble, sir, I would greatly like to go to church in Leixlip and light a candle for my sister—but the walk is so far. Would you be good enough to take me?" she asked, turning her large brown eyes to him.

"I would be honored," John smiled.

"But how will you get home?" Jules asked, concerned.

Margaret's face was tense. "I can walk. It looks to be a nice day."

As the pair left the dirigible, Phileas caught John's arm. "Please, not a word to her."

"No. I will return shortly," John assured him. 

John was true to his word and was back in the salon an hour later. He explained that Margaret wanted to stay in town a while longer, then take a leisurely walk home.

"Phileas, let's say this incredible idea is correct: Rebecca is alive. Catherine was coerced or paid to play Rebecca and pretend to be murdered. For what reason?" John reasoned.

"To make us believe she was dead," Jules offered.

"What purpose does that serve? Who benefits from it?"

"Someone who wants Rebecca and doesn't want me coming after her," Phileas speculated.

"Who would that be?"

"What about Count Rimini?" Jules asked.

"He was a most inappropriate suitor," Phileas explained to John. "However, he made it clear that he wanted Rebecca to choose to be with him—not to be forced."

"Let's keep him in the back of our minds, shall we?" John asked. "As a possibility. What about this: With Rebecca gone, her cases would be reassigned. Was she working on something important?"

Phileas shook his head. "She had been without an assignment before being sent to Leixlip. There was nothing else."

Passepartout uttered a groan and began speaking rapidly in French.

"Are you feeling alright?" Jules asked.

Passepartout stared, his eyes wide with fright. "Passepartout has other idea for why Miss Rebecca not dead."

"Let's hear it!" Phileas demanded.

Apprehensively, the valet posed his theory: "When you want enemies to stop, you distract. How? Take away what he needs to live most."

"And in taking away Rebecca, who has been hurt?" John asked.

"Oh God," whispered Phileas. He slowly stood and ran shaking fingers through his hair. "Oh God. It makes sense. Someone who hates me has done this."

Passepartout looked apologetically at his master. "I knows not. Is bad, bad idea."

Phileas began to pace. To punish him. Of course. To punish him Rebecca was taken. Memories of Saratoga Browne flashed through his mind. _Dear Lord, please let it not be that. Not Rebecca. Not another…_

A timid knock caused all the men to start. 

"Gerald! Come in!" exclaimed Jules at the door.

The boy, looking ill at ease, only took one step inside. "Sirs, this is for you. From Miss Margaret."

He handed Jules a folded piece of paper and scurried off into the afternoon. Jules read quickly and cursed.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Margaret. She has found work as a maid. At Leixlip Castle."

"She must have overheard our conversation!" John declared.

"What else does the note say?" Phileas asked wearily.

"Just that her day off is in a week—and that she will meet me at The Old Hare at 2 p.m. then."

Jules held his ale so tightly Passepartout was sure the glass would shatter. They sat at a corner table at The Old Hare, out of sight of the main door and the group of regulars by the fire.

"Master Jules, Miss Margaret is smart woman," Passepartout began.

"She may be in danger," Jules said anxiously.

"She'll be here," he tried to assure his friend.

As the clock on the wall struck, Margaret walked through the door, surveyed the room, and sat down at their table.

"Mr. Passepartout, you have outdone yourself," she commented.

The valet smiled and touched his golden curls. "I not look French, no?"

"Margaret, what on earth have you done?" Jules angrily interrupted.

The girl stiffened. "I heard you that night with your ideas about Catherine. She never would have done what you said. So, if it's information you need from Liffey Castle that's what I'll get. Catherine had nothing to do with Rebecca. You'll see."

Jules simmered silently for a minute. "Have you learned anything?"

Margaret nodded. "Yes."

"Tell me and I tell master," Passepartout said.

"I was hired by Mr. Hastings, but he isn't the tenant," Margaret said in hushed tones. "He works for a Mr. Kelly. I met him—and he didn't speak, not a word. He only smiled, but it was a queer smile. Like he knew too much."

"What did he look like?" Jules asked.

"Tall, pale. He looked as Irish as Passepartout does."

"What else?"

"Mr. Hastings says I'm to do the downstairs rooms only, unless told different. There is no chitchatting with the other staff. There's Mrs. Hayes, the cook, and Mr. Craig, the gardener. And he said I wasn't to go into the cellar at all. He said it's too dangerous."

"It sounds mysterious, but there's no proof that they're connected to either Catherine or Rebecca," Jules observed dejectedly.

"That isn't all. Two things happened last night. First, I passed the library and heard arguing. There's a tapestry that runs from the ceiling to the floor, so I hid behind it. A man rushed passed me—I didn't see him. But I did peek out to see Mr. Kelly at the door. He was angry. Then he yelled for Mr. Hastings and they went away, talking about 'taking care of it.' Jules, Kelly's accent was French like yours!"

Jules' brow furrowed. "Go on. What was the other thing?"

"Later, I was in the kitchen. Mr. Hastings got a bowl of broth. He said Mr. Kelly was unwell. I waited until he was down the hall, then I followed after. He was at the cellar door. He took out some keys, unlocked it, and took it down the stairs!"

Passepartout gasped. "Who is down there who drinks the broth?"

Jules leaned back. "If Phileas were here, I'm sure he'd want to search the castle."

"Mr. Hastings said I was to do all of the rooms tomorrow because they're going to Dublin," Margaret offered.

"Margaret, you'll need to draw us a map to show us where the back entrance is. You'll let us in after they leave." Jules' thoughts were coming a mile a minute.

"Master knows not any of this yet," Passepartout cautioned.

Determined, Jules shook his head. "I need to do this for him, Jean. Margaret, what time will Kelly be leaving?"

"Blast and damnation, Verne, have you lost your bloody mind?!"

If Jules were expecting thanks for the arrangements he had made, he would have been sorely disappointed. After finalizing his plan with Margaret and bidding her a safe evening, Jules returned to the dirigible with Passepartout, who now stood in the corner furthest away from his master. Jules had just proudly explained his strategy to Phileas until the man was white with rage. 

"Fogg, it makes sense…" he began.

"No, it doesn't make sense that you would put into motion this scheme without speaking to me first!" Phileas shouted.

John, who had sat silently at the table, finally spoke. "Actually, Fogg, it isn't a bad idea."

"Keep out of this, John," he snapped.

"No, my friend, I am fully in the middle of this now," John smiled. He wasn't in the least phased by Phileas' temper. He must have seen outbursts like this before, Jules noted.

Phileas' eyes flashed in anger. "So the retired agent agrees with the young school boy's idea…."

"You are also retired, Fogg," John said firmly. "And Verne isn't a boy."

"No!" Phileas declared. "We have a Frenchman posing as an Irishman, talking to his manservant about 'taking care' of something. There may be someone in the basement. I must go to that castle alone, not all of us. This plan will not work!"

"Why? Because I thought of it?" Jules suddenly demanded. "Because I am stepping into your role for once. Because I want to…."

"What?" Phileas growled.

"Because I want to help you! How many times have you rescued me from the League of Darkness? How many times have you protected me? Just this once, when you aren't…aren't yourself, let me help you!" Jules finished his impassioned speech only a few inches from his friend's face.

Phileas stood silently. "Very well, Verne. It is a good plan…and I thank you."

QUOTE

The medieval castle was situated on an imposing rock base, watching over where the Rye Water flowed into the River Liffey. Its dark Gothic windows looked like sad, sightless eyes peering out from green ivy that trailed up the walls. The small but imposing structure gave no warmth or welcome, only a hollow coldness.

The men cut through the estate woods to arrive at the rear of the castle. Margaret's signal—a single candle placed in the kitchen window—would be their sign to go to the back door. Boiling clouds, which had been threatening all day, finally relented and a steady rain began to fall. Behind an out building, they crouched in the darkening afternoon as the water quickly turned soft dirt into a muddy mess.

"Blast," John whispered and turned up his coat collar. "I hate sitting in the rain."

"If I remember correctly, there was a time in Greece that you didn't mind it at all," Phileas commented. 

The corner of John's mouth twitched. "The circumstances were quite different."

"Indeed," Phileas said nonchalantly.

Jules, observing the exchange, shook his head. "The stories you two could tell."

"But we won't, will we?" John cast a warning look at Phileas. "Ah, there's the signal."

Margaret let them into the neat, clean kitchen. Her appearance surprised Jules, who had grown accustomed to soft curls floating gently around her creamy neck. Today her hair was pulled up in a severe bun on top of her head. She had forgone her blue dress for a conservative black maid's uniform. 

"Cook is in town for the day. Kelly and Hastings left 15 minutes ago with the driver," she reported and took their wet coats. "Where is Passepartout?"

"Posted at the end of the drive, just in case," Jules replied.

She hid their wet garments in a small closet off the pantry. "Alright then. Come this way."

Margaret nervously led them down a long, linear hall. On the cold walls hung formidable portraits of unhappy men and women from years past. She quickly pointed out the rooms like an uneasy guide. "Here is the dining room. And this is the library."

Jules shivered in the pervasive coldness. All the rooms were dark and forbidding, none looked lived in. He paused at an expansive tapestry across from the library. He cringed at its floor-to-ceiling depiction of a furious and bloody battle scene. 

Further beyond it on the right was a grand staircase in the middle of a circular entry room.

"This was once a courtyard," Margaret reported as they passed the stairs and continued down the hall. "Over here is the cellar door."

They rounded a sharp corner to see a wide wooden door in a recessed doorway. Wordlessly, John and Phileas both tried to open it with no success.

Phileas banged on it in frustration. "Is there any other way in?"

"No," Margaret replied.

"We'll need tools," John concluded.

"Yes," she said uneasily. "In the gardener's shed."

The group quickly retraced its steps. Phileas felt his pulse pound with each footfall. He was leading an odd group to covertly search an Irish castle in a rainstorm, hoping to find a woman who was most likely dead. _Utter foolishness and poppycock._ His father's voice filled his mind_._ Sir Boniface never could spare a moment for what he perceived as unnecessary, emotion-based activity. Phileas bitterly blotted out the unwelcome image of his father.

Just past the library they heard the unexpected shuffling of feet, muffled voices, and a door closing. 

"They are returned!" Margaret's voice was raised an octave.

"Quickly!" Phileas hissed, gesturing to his companions. "Behind the arras!"

The men quickly ducked behind the large tapestry and held their collective breath.

"Sirs," Margaret greeted the two men in a subdued voice. Hastings handed her his and Kelly's coats.

"Fetch us some tea. Our horse came up lame; we won't be going to Dublin tonight."

"Yes, sir," she replied. She hung up their coats with fumbling fingers. How was she to get her friends safely out? As she crossed the entryway, she saw Kelly quickly mount the stairs while Hastings went to the drawing room. She sped down the hall and ducked behind the tapestry. "They aren't going! What shall we do?"

"They will retire at some point. Don't worry," Phileas said calmly but patted his coat. His revolver, loaded and ready, was quickly accessible. Margaret whimpered and hurried to the kitchen.

"I feel like Polonius," Jules whispered in the darkness. The tapestry was thick and smelly.

"I sincerely hope you won't share his fate," Phileas said tightly. "This covering will hide us."

"What now?" John abruptly asked. "Someone is at the front door!"

The sound of men talking carried to them; one voice was distinctly familiar.

"Passepartout," Jules groaned.

Phileas closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. What on earth was his valet doing?

"The old desk. You have it, no?"

Hastings studied the foreigner who stood at the door. His hair was an odd shade of blonde, which starkly contrasted with his olive-toned skin. His clothing was wet, and he fingered his hat nervously.

"I'm afraid, sir, we do not have any antiques for sale. You've been misinformed," Hastings said curtly.

Passepartout looked in his pockets as if he were search for something. "But I has it here. The letter says the desk is here."

Hastings frowned. "You are mistaken."

Hastings towered a good six inches over the valet and had three stone on him easily. He clearly was neither a trained butler nor a valet. With his square hands and rough demeanor, Hastings would have worked in the stables at Shillingworth Magna, if Phileas would even have such a person in his employ.

"I sorry. Was wrong idea." Suddenly Passepartout stumbled; Hastings was forced to steady him. "A million pardons. I have traveled far. Am weary."

Hastings sighed in contempt. "The girl will be along with tea. You may come in."

Passepartout nodded his head gratefully. Wherever his friends were, he hoped they had made their escape. 

"Shall we try to run to the kitchen?" Jules' voice was barely a murmur.

"No," Phileas replied. He gently pushed the edge of the tapestry away from him. "I can see a shadow falling across the end of the hall."

"How long will Passeparout attempt to stall?" John asked.

"Until he feels we've had a good chance to get out of here," Jules replied.

Margaret passed them quickly, the china teapot rattling nervously on its tray. 

"I hope sshe can keep her wits about her," Phileas said sharply.

"We have an unexpected guest," Hastings announced as Margaret entered the drawing room. It wasa good that he had turned to face Passepartout and did not see the look of agitated surprise written across her countenance. She quickly regained her composure and poured the tea.

Passepartout asked her with his eyes if his master was safely away, but she had her head down.

"Will Mr. Kelly be joining?" she asked cautiously.

"No. That is all," he dismissed her. 

The clock ticked like a metronome. After a few minutes, Passepartout stood. "I thanks you many times over. I am sorry I disturbed."

Glad to be rid of the strange intruder, Hastings nodded and brusquely escorted Passepartout to the door.

"Goodbyes. And thank you," Passepartout said again, reaching for his hat.

"Hastings!" A deep voice called from the top of the stairs. The large man responded like a frightened in-between maid and darted up the two flights of polished maple. Passepartout could barely make out the silhouette of the other man standing at the dark head of the stairs.

"I be going now!" Passepartout called.

As quickly as a bird of prey, Hasting descended the stairs and took Passepartout by the elbow. "My master would like to meet you," he said in a menacing tone. "He, too, loves antiques."

"No, no. No trouble him," Passepartout protested. 

"It's no trouble at all." Hastings' grip was like steel. He propelled the valet up a dozen steps to the first landing. "Here is Mr. Kelly now."

The shadowy figure slowly came towards him. Passepartout stood rooted in place as a slow horror filled him. The man walked unhurriedly into the light, which illuminated him beginning at his feet, finally reaching his gaunt face. 

"There was something about you I thought I recognized," the man said.

Passepartout jerked as if he had been slapped. 

"You!" he gasped and all went black.

Margaret again popped behind the tapestry. "I cleared the tea things away. There's no one to be seen, but I heard Hastings talking upstairs."

"Passepartout has left?" John asked.

"He…did you hear that? It sounds like someone running," Jules whispered. 

"Yes, and a door opening," John agreed.

"How on earth can you hear that?" Phileas asked in disbelief.

"Loose an eye, gain better hearing, or some such rot," he smirked. 

They waited several more minutes in silence. John may have been gifted with better hearing, but everyone could hear the muffled shot that rang out from somewhere in the castle.

****

"Sweet is revenge—especially to women."—Lord Byron

No one said a word but sprang from behind the tapestry and sped toward the sound, which came from the other end of the hall. Phileas sprinted across the round entry room, but Margaret's cry brought him to a screeching halt.

"Passepartout!" Margaret had caught sight of the valet sprawled on the landing of the stairs. She pressed a handkerchief to the bleeding gash on his forehead.

"Is he shot?" Jules asked anxiously.

"No, unconscious," she replied with relief.

"Stay with him!" Phileas ordered. He rounded the sharp corner; the heavy cellar door was now ajar. 

With guns drawn, John and Phileas carefully crept down the dark, narrow staircase, followed by Jules. The open door barely provided enough light to make out the shapes of crates and boxes. Phileas pointed for John to circle to the right, Jules to the left. He stealthily crept into the heart of the room.

Outside the storm was raging. Muffled thunder could be heard even in the damp, cold castle bowels. Phileas paused, his catlike instincts telling him something was happening ahead in the darkness. Then he heard the sound of a door scraping—and a woman's cry.

It was against common sense. It was against protocol. It was against training. But Phileas was as unable to stop his shout of "Rebecca!" as he was the burst of adrenaline that propelled him into the black unknown.

Cobwebs assaulted his face as he ran pell-mell ahead. The room finally ended at another door. He felt for its heavy latch and pulled it open to see a narrow hallway dimly lit by ceiling-high windows on one side. Empty, ancient cells where some past landowner had imprisoned those who angered him lined the hall. At the end, one cell door stood open.

Phileas ran to it, but the sight that greeted him made him sink to his knees on the filthy stone floor.

The woman was face down, her hands bound behind her back. Fresh blood flowed from where the back of her head should have been. With dread apprehension, Phileas carefully rolled her over. Red, matted hair; lifeless eyes; an open mouth forever frozen in a silent scream—these images nightmarishly swirled before his eyes as the world refused to come into focus. It wasn't until he heard Margaret's screams that he realized he was holding Catherine, not Rebecca.

Passepartout had recovered enough for Margaret to guide him down the cellar stairs. Hearing his master's shout, he tried to run, but Margaret's steady hands and his own injury kept his gait to a fast walk. Dazed, he stumbled into the prison room. Something bad was happening down the hall, but he was unable to stop Margaret from running to the horrifying scene. 

John covered Catherine's body with his coat as Jules roughly pulled a sobbing Margaret into a protective embrace. Phileas stared at the lifeless woman, his fists rapidly clenching and unclenching. "We must find how they got out. Quickly!"

He rushed past Passepartout, barely noticing the injured man. Phileas and John began searching for a hidden door or window—an exit the murderers had escaped through. 

"Master, I knows him," Passepartout tried to get Phileas' attention.

"Passepartout? Go sit down!" Phileas barked.

"I having headache, master, that's all. But you know the villain! It's Cavois!"

Phileas stopped abruptly. "Cavois. You're sure?" 

"Yes, master," Passepartout declared.

Images of the enemy agent with dull brown hair and dead blue eyes flashed in his mind. Cavois, the man who had tried to assassinate Rebecca. The man who challenged him to Russian Roulette, but fled like a coward when Phileas faced him down. Fled, filled with humiliated rage.

"What is he talking about, Fogg?" John demanded.

"There's no time!" Phileas shouted and began hitting each stone. 

"I'd heard this old castle has tunnels leading to the river," John reflected, staring at the west wall. "The Liffey is this way. Here, Fogg, search over here!"

The two men ran their fingers along and over the stones until Phileas felt a small lever near the floor. He pulled it and a small section of wall opened. He and John disappeared into the darkness.

Jules murmured useless words of comfort and kissed the top of Margaret's head.

"Who is Cavois? Is he the murderer?" she asked hiccuping her tears.

"Yes, if what Passepartout said is right."

"It is, Master Jules," Passepartout replied, easing down to the ground in the adjacent cell. "I talked much with his manservant, then he appeared. Cavois."

"Cavois is an enemy of England," Jules explained. "He vowed revenge on Rebecca for her government work. He's extremely dangerous."

Luckily, Margaret didn't press for details. She disentangled herself from Jules' arms and knelt by her dead sister. She began to weep.

Jules eyes filled at the sad sight. He absently looked about the cell and noted a threadbare blanket and a bowl in the corner. He glanced over at Passepartout who had grasped the bars to pull him to a standing position. At Passepartout's feet was a blanket and a bowl. 

"Passepartout! The blanket!" he cried.

The valet turned and picked it up off the ground. "It is very poor…."

"No, there's one in here and one with you. There were two people down here!"

Passepartout gripped the covering. "Miss Rebecca?"

Jules quickly entered the cell. Upon closer examination, he saw the mortar between the stones in the wall was rough and jagged. "As if someone had been digging," he said aloud.

"Master Jules." Passepartout tapped him on the arm. "Look."

He pointed at manacles at floor level. "Someone was chained."

Margaret spoke in the dim light. "Cavois had Catherine pretend to be Rebecca—and pretend to be killed? Jules, she wouldn't have done that!"

He quickly rejoined her. "What if she had been convinced it was a harmless prank?" 

She shook her head. "She still wouldn't have done it."

"What if he not do the asking? What if someone else?" Passepartout proposed.

Margaret's eyes darkened in anger as a new thought took shape in her mind.  


Phileas and John plunged headlong down the tunnel. _Damn, why didn't I bring a torch?_ Phileas cursed silently. They finally reached a door. Pushing with all their might, the two men emerged from behind a large rock formation at the base of a hill. They were in the dense forest that lined the Liffey near Salmon Run. 

"This way!" John yelled, running toward the river. 

The rain had diminished into drizzle. In the late-afternoon grayness they could see a small boat below the falls. At the oars was a heavy-set man. In the front was Cavois; across his lap lay the unmoving form of a woman. A tall man on the bank was helping them shove off.

With a burst of speed, Phileas ran at the boat but was too late. The craft was already heading south, tossing in the rough river water. Without missing a step, he turned and ran parallel along the bank.

With the boat and Phileas beyond his reach, John turned his anger to the man on the bank. "I would hate to kill you where you stand, but don't mistake me: I will."

He held his hands up in the face of John's revolver. "I only had to have the boat ready. That's all, I swear it!"

"Don't believe him, Mr. Murphy." Margaret's voice was chillingly calm as she and Jules approached. "Hello, Colm."

The man flinched. "My name isn't Colm."

"Is that any way to greet your sister-in-law?"

Colm arrogantly threw his head back. "You have nothing on me."

"No?" demanded John. "What about aiding and abetting a kidnapper?"

"I was only to prepare the boat. I don't know nothing about a kidnapping," he said sullenly.

"What about the murder of your wife?" Jules angrily demanded. 

Colm's manner changed. "It's all him. Cavois. His man Hastings had me do some odd jobs. Drive Cavois around. Said they was looking for a man who could keep quiet. Then, he asks me about Cathy. Says they have a job that would pay well. I was to tell her it was a prank, you see. So, I goes to Cathy and promises her all the stuff she had whined for—a house, babies—if only she'd do this. She said yes. The only thing I forgot to do was have her leave a note saying she was moving away."

"A fortunate mistake for us," John commented. "Where has Catherine been all this time?"

Colm shrugged. "She and I lived above the stables. But then she started again. When would we leave? Why couldn't she go to town? And what was in the cellar that was locked up? Last week she stole my keys and found out."

"And tonight you killed her," Margaret's voice trembled with rage.

"No! I never murdered no one!" he exclaimed. "After she figured out about the basement, Cavois ordered me to do it, but I said no. He must have done it himself."

"But you brought her here! You put her in danger!" Margaret shouted. A flash of lightning betrayed Rebecca's derringer in her hand. 

Colm had no response. He fell dead to the ground.

"Here now, missy," John said gently, taking the smoking pistol from her. "He'll hurt no one anymore."

Jules stared at Margaret with a mixture of pity and horror. "We need to get her out of here, Murphy."

"Take her back to the castle. I need to find Phileas," John said and began running southward along the river. 

Passepartout caught up to him. "We find master together."

****

"To choose one's victims, to prepare one's plan minutely, to slake an implacable vengeance, and then to go to bed…there is nothing sweeter in the world."—Josef Stalin

Phileas' breath came in ragged gasps as he ran along the Liffey. The boat was a distance in front of him. The lights of Leixlip danced on the water but the town seemed so far away.

He could see Cavois in silhouette, gesturing to the large man who rowed. The man dropped his oars in the boat and reached in his coat. Phileas barely had time to drop to the ground before the shot rang out. Instinctively, he grasped his revolver and returned fire.

The man was struck and lurched forward. Cavois struggled to grasp the oars, but the boat careened along with the tide and rounded a bend, out of Phileas' sight. He charged forward.

He rounded the curve to see the boat roughly strike some large rocks on his side of the river. The little craft was wedged between two boulders. 

Cavois yanked the woman to her feet and dragged her out of the boat and darted into the woods. Revolver in his gloved hand, Phileas tore after them. 

Dark woods can play tricks on the mind, especially following a storm. Dripping branches creaked in the wind, blowing a fine mist into his face. The rain-soaked ground oozed beneath his feet as he ran. Exposed roots and dark rock outcroppings became threatening hazards. He paused at where the edge of the woods bordered the far side of the estate. The silverish-brown trees stood bent and bare like tired soldiers guarding the carpet of colorless leaves. In the coming nightfall, everything had an unearthly quality to it. The dim shadows that made everything look as if it could waver and disappear in the blink of an eye. 

Phileas looked to his right where a large hill mounted to the sky. Half way up were Cavois and his woman captive.

Was it her? Was it really Rebecca? The woman was barefoot, her thin garments torn and muddy. Her hair was unwashed and dark. 

__

Rebecca! he screamed in his mind. The woman stopped abruptly, causing Cavois to falter. 

"Phileas!" Rebecca hoarsely cried. 

Cavois slapped her hard across the face and began pulling her again. Blind with rage, Phileas ran toward the pair, revolver in hand.

Out of breath from the exertion, Cavois turned and pointed a gun at Phileas.

"There's nowhere you can escape to," Phileas said, taking a step closer.

"Perhaps not. But I have won."

"You won't leave here alive," Phileas promised darkly.

"I will. And I've had my revenge! And it was the best kind—the type that doesn't end!" he said, walking backwards. Rebecca fought feebly but was no match. "You see, to kill one or both of you would have been satisfying but over too quickly. What I planned was perfect."

Phileas held his revolver steady as the rain began to fall again. Cavois brought his left arm across Rebecca's shoulders, pulling the semiconscious woman close to his body. He placed his revolver's nose to the side of her head.

"Can you imagine the delight I've had? Knowing you believed she was dead? Having the supreme joy of telling her that you had killed yourself in a fit of grief?" He laughed maniacally. 

Phileas blinked through streams of water. "Let her go."

Rebecca suddenly slumped, deadweight. Cavois moved his arm to her waist as she hung forward, her hair streaming to the ground. He turned the gun on Phileas. "No, Fogg. You don't make the rules here. I am in charge."

Cavois began to gloat. "It was so easy. It all began when I stopped in that pub and saw that woman. She was identical to Rebecca. And there was born my brilliant plan.

"You've realized, of course, that I sent you the message to meet with your bankers in London. I couldn't have you tag along with Rebecca. Such a bad habit of yours. And I cancelled the meeting, too. You were a pawn in my hands."

"McGinty. The agent in Dublin?" Phileas suddenly realized the depth of Cavois' scheme. 

"Chatsworth is pliable. I planted evidence to make him doubt McGinty, and Chatsworth pulled him. He had to send an another agent to investigate the Finians."

"How did you know he would send Rebecca?" Phileas' voice was as smooth as silk. He slowly inched closer.

"I'm a student of human nature, Fogg. Just as I knew how you and your cousin would react at the thought of the other's death, I knew Chatsworth would send his only female agent to investigate something that didn't need investigating. 

"She and my local man met where the tunnel exits at the Liffey. She never saw it coming. Foolish, stupid woman!"

In a blur of motion, Rebecca suddenly rose up, knitted her fingers together, and plunged her right elbow into her captor's midsection. Doubled over, Cavois gasped for air as she wrenched the revolver from his hand and ran to Phileas. The effort took her last ounce of strength: She collapsed, unconscious, in his waiting arms. He clasped her to his chest, then carefully lowered her to the ground. Rivulets of water coursed down her deathly white face. Phileas shuddered; she was dying.

Wracked by a guttural cry, he pursued a fleeing Cavois up the sodden hill, tackling him near a small group of boulders. Pinning him to the ground, Phileas pummeled his enemy with punches to the face and torso. The sounds of flesh meeting flesh mixed with animalistic grunts and falling rain. 

****

"Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,

Yet with my nobler reason 'gainst my fury

Do I take part. The rarer action is

In virtue than vengeance."—Wm. Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

With knuckles torn and bleeding, Phileas stood and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. Deliberately he picked up his revolver and stood over the unmoving man. Cavois lay on his side, his face already starting to swell. Blood flowed from a cut on his cheek. His lips were purple and swollen.

Phileas scrutinized him with cold rage. It was here, his moment for retribution. It was time to pay back Cavois for every evil he had done to Rebecca. Phileas aimed the gun.

Rebecca moaned. Her eyes were open. She looked about wildly, not knowing where she was or what was happening. 

One shot. That's all it would take. One shot between the eyes. His revenge would be complete.

She was alive. She needed his help. 

Cavois deserved to die.

Rebecca deserved to live.

One shot in the heart.

She was alive.

Just one shot.

Rebecca. 

Phileas slowly lowered his weapon. He would wait to see Cavois in the Old Bailey. He turned to walk back to Rebecca.

It was in that moment Cavois leapt up at him with amazing agility. 

Taken by surprise, Phileas fired the gun, but Cavois had the upper hand. The two men struggled for the revolver for an agonizing minute. Then, with a centered punch to the jaw, Cavois knocked Phileas down. His bloodied face contorted with rage, Cavois triumphantly aimed at Phileas' heart.

"I told you once that when I killed you, I'd be looking into your eyes," he declared. Slowly, he cocked the gun. "Goodbye, Phileas Fogg."

Phileas braced himself for the sickening impact of bullet ripping skin, crushing bone. _No, no not like this._ Death wasn't a stranger to him. He had courted her, coveted her, and held her at arm's length for years. And now that she was coming to claim him, he wasn't ready. He had imagined his death a hundred different ways; being shot on an Irish hillside in the rain admittedly hadn't been one of them. _Not now._ Not with Rebecca lying helpless a few yards away. He lunged as the shot rang out. 

Phileas felt his chest for sticky, hot blood, but there was none. Instead, Cavois screamed like an animal caught in a trap and ran up the hill holding his left shoulder. 

Rebecca had somehow propped herself up on an elbow. "Goodbye, Cavois." Slowly lowering her captor's revolver, she slumped back to the ground.

Phileas felt rather than saw what happened next. Circles of blue and white light knocked him backwards as electrified air made his hair stand on end. A deafening _boom_ echoed simultaneously. _Lightning_, he thought as his head pounded. He slowly opened his eyes and stood. Near the top of the hill were Cavois' smoking remains.

"Master!" Passepartout was beside him, helping him to his feet. 

"I'm not hurt," he said, dazed. They stared at the dead man as lightening flashed in the distance.

"'Vengeance is mine; I shall repay,' saith the Lord.'" Passepartout quoted perfectly.

"Fogg!" John knelt by Rebecca. "We have to get her to a doctor!"

Phileas paced the great hall, his shoes leaving a trail of dirty rainwater in his wake. John had dispatched a servant for the doctor the moment the disheveled group burst into his house. And what a doctor he was! Tree-trunk legs, barrel chest, and flame-red hair, Dr. Riley took command, ordering everyone save Mary Murphy out of Rebecca's second-floor room.

"Phileas?" John handed him a whiskey. Phileas quickly threw it to the back of his throat. The liquid burned pleasantly.

"What the devil is taking so long?" He anxiously stared up the stairs.

"Riley is a good man," John assured his friend. 

"But were we too late?" Phileas sat down heavily. _That madman was about to shoot me. And she summoned up God knows how much strength to fire a gun._

"Here you are, sir," said Mrs. Hudson, dropping a warm blanket over his shoulders as she picked up his discarded wet jacket and waistcoat. 

She then went to Jules and Margaret, seated on a delicate sofa near the fireplace, and gave them coverings. Jules nodded his thanks and looked at Margaret. Her eyes were glassy, her icy fingers intertwined in his. She stared into the leaping flames, having said very little since he took her away from the river.

Phileas closed his eyes. God couldn't be this cruel—to return Rebecca only to take her again. If she were to die, he would calmly walk out into the storm, which was again raging full-force. He eyed his gun on the hall table just to make sure it was still there. 

"Who is responsible for this woman's injuries?" bellowed Dr. Riley from the top of the stairs, his brow knitted in anger.

"He's dead," Phileas responded, jumping to his feet.

Riley's temper abated as he marched downstairs. "Good. If he weren't, I'd kill him myself."

"How is she?" Jules asked, standing.

"I'm not accustomed to discussing my patient with a crowd," he declared.

"I'm her cousin. And these people are…family," Phileas said.

"Very well. From a cursory examination, I'd say she is dehydrated, exhausted, and suffering from near starvation. She has infected wounds on her wrists and ankles. I can only deduce that she has been chained somewhere for quite some time. I also fear she has developed pneumonia."

"Will she recover?" Phileas fought the fear that made his voice tremble.

Riley surveyed their worried faces. "Her condition is serious. I cannot promise you, but given enough time and care, she may make a full recovery."

Phileas sank back down, unable to speak. She would live. Like the Phoenix, Rebecca had come back from the dead. She had a second chance at life—and so, then, did he. 

"She will need a nurse," he heard Riley advise distantly. "And no one is admitted into the sick room unless I say so."

"Sirs, I care for Miss Rebecca." For the first time Passepartout spoke. Phileas looked up sharply, stabbed with guilt for neglecting his injured valet.

"Young man, that cut needs to be seen!" the doctor scolded. "I will send to Dublin for a nurse."

Passepartout went white. "I take care of master and master's family. Passepartout take care of Miss Rebecca!"

Phileas walked over and rested his hands on the fatigued man's shoulders. "You take excellent care of us, Passepartout. But right now, please do what the doctor tells you to do. No objections."

"Yes, master," Passepartout yielded. "But when Miss Rebecca going home?"

"To England? Not for weeks," Dr. Riley growled. "You all could do with hot baths, good meals, and warm beds."

"I will see to that," said Mrs. Hudson and headed to the kitchen.

"Good, good. Now I need to stitch up that cut."

"Wait." John leaned over and whispered something to the doctor. 

Riley grunted in agreement. "Miss Slater?" His unexpected gentle tone contrasted with his burly exterior. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to him. "I understand you've had quite a shock tonight. If you please, I'd like to give you something to help you sleep."

Margaret looked to Jules for approval. "Do what the doctor says," he said, helping her to her feet. Slowly, Riley led her and Passepartout up the stairs.

"I'll have Mrs. Hudson send for a nurse," John said and left the room.

Jules leaned against the stone mantle. "She shot him, Fogg. Shot him down where he stood."

"It's no more than he deserved," Phileas said coldly, watching the doctor escort Passepartout and Margaret.

"But to just shoot him in cold blood…." Jules looked sick.

"Verne, what on earth did you think I was going to do to?" Phileas was deliberately harsh. 

"But you didn't, did you?" Verne countered.

"No. But if I had found Rebecca dead instead of alive, I would have killed him with no second thoughts. Margaret had just seen Catherine with half her skull blown off.

"Now," he added in a quieter tone, "while that tyrannical physician is tending Margaret and Passepartout, I am going to see Rebecca."

"But he said she wasn't allowed visitors!" Jules voice raised in youthful concern.

"I am not a visitor!" Phileas declared and took the stairs two at a time.

He slowly opened the door. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the faint light of only one flickering candle near the four-poster bed and a small fire crackling in the fireplace. In the midst of cloudlike white pillows and a thick comforter, Rebecca looked like a young girl. Her long hair lay over her shoulders. Dark purple rings circled her closed eyes, which now seemed too large in her thin face. Peeking out from her loose dressing gown sleeves were thick bandages that ran up to her elbows. 

If ever a sight could have moved Phileas Fogg to tears, this was it. But not tears of sadness. In his heart he felt a joy so pure it almost erased all past sorrows. It was as if a lost dream was suddenly reborn in all its glory and hope before his eyes. 

"Phileas," Mary Murphy whispered. He hadn't seen her standing in the corner.

"Is she…?"

"Asleep. The doctor hopes for a recovery," she said comfortingly. "But remember, her recovery won't be just physical."

"Pardon?" he asked, unable to look away from Rebecca.

"After John's injuries healed, it took time for him to accept what had happened to him. Rebecca has endured unspeakable horrors." Mary couldn't finish connecting her thoughts, but there was no need. 

Phileas nodded and said the mantra that had been echoing in his mind: "She's alive."

"Yes," Mary replied and walked to the door. "I'm going to have cook put more water on to boil. Doctor wants pans of water in here."

As the door closed, Phileas quietly pulled a heavy chair next to the bed and watched Rebecca sleep. With a trembling sigh, he rested his forehead on clasped hands. To a passerby it would seem as if he were a penitent man praying to God. And perhaps he was. Whatever Phileas promised, admitted, or declared in the wavering candlelight, no one else heard.

"Rebecca, I'm here." Phileas took one of her hands in his. "You're safe now."

She responded to the sound of his voice. "Phileas?" she mumbled heavily.

"Go to sleep. That militant doctor will have my hide if he knew…" 

"Hold me." 

She had chosen to be a secret agent, and he accepted that choice—with the stipulation that he would protect her whenever possible. Now her request was a simple one—to have the man who had vowed to safeguard her comfort her in his arms. But he had failed when she needed him most. 

She moaned again. Phileas lightly sat on the edge of her bed and reached down.

"No," she whispered, her eyes barely open. "_Hold_ me."

He hesitated, but only for a moment. He quickly shed his boots and slid under the covers. With every possible tenderness, he carefully nestled Rebecca against his chest, careful of her injured wrists and ankles. There were several hot-water bottles at her feet, but she still felt cold to the touch. 

Phileas' emotions were raw. He lay staring at the carved ceiling, stroking her head. He now knew what it was like to live without her—and it was an existence he wanted no part of. No matter what course she chose for her life, it was fine with Phileas, as long as she was safe. He would commit the rest of his life to protect her. It was his duty.

A single tear overflowed from the corner of his eye. That was nonsense, of course. He loved her. He always had. No other woman could excite, aggravate, thrill, amuse, torment, or challenge him like Rebecca could. 

His love for her had no beginning: He couldn't remember it not being there. From the day he came home from school to find an impish young girl with the bluest eyes he'd ever seen riding his fastest pony, he'd known it. He had never acknowledged it, but it was there, burning, growing, maturing over the years. 

"Phileas?"

"Yes?" his voice shook.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, Ireland."

"You're here?"

"Yes."

"Don't leave."

"No," he shook his head. "I won't leave. I'll be here when you awake."

And he kept his word, much to the chagrin of a scandalized Mary Murphy and a nearly apoplectic Dr. Riley. In hushed but firm tones, Phileas let them know propriety could go hang, he would not leave Rebecca's bed that night. 

Rebecca's eyes slowly opened. They revealed neither fear nor relief—just a grim acceptance that she had no control over her surroundings. She registered the warmth of the fire and the softness of the bed, but she could make no sense of it. For the past month, her home had been a cold cell in the basement of Leixlip Castle. 

Her arms hurt, but something was different. She had bandages on. Her eyes traveled downward. She saw the bodice of a white cotton dressing gown and a thick down comforter. No, it wasn't right. She had been wearing tattered rags with only a thin blanket for warmth.

Slowly, she rolled onto her side to see Phileas facing her. She frowned, a small crease forming between her eyebrows. Like someone in a dream, she slowly lifted a hand to his face and traced his strong jawbone with her fingertips.

"How can this be?" she whispered. 

He placed his hand on hers and held it against his cheek. "Hello, Rebecca."

"Is this real?" her voice quavered. 

Phileas nodded. "You're safe."

"Where am I?" 

"John Baker's house." 

It took a few seconds for her to recognize the name. "John." 

"Yes. Jules and Passepartout are here as well." 

She processed the information slowly, still frowning. "Why are you in bed with me?" 

Phileas couldn't help grinning. "I promised that I wouldn't leave until you awoke. I've been a perfect gentleman."

Rebecca didn't acknowledge his humor. "Am I ill?" 

She wasn't as lucid as he would have liked. He gave her hand a little squeeze and placed it on the bed. "Yes, but you are going to get better."

To his dismay, her serious expression dissolved into one of panic. Her lower lip began to tremble. "I thought…he said you were…." 

"I know," Phileas quickly interrupted. "But I'm not. I'm safe, and so are you." 

Rebecca didn't ask any more questions. Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks as she pressed the palm of her hand against his. He knitted his fingers through hers. They lay staring into the other's eyes, their flesh-to-flesh connection assuring them that the other indeed was alive and well.

  
As dawn broke, Mary coaxed Phileas into going to his own room for modesty's sake. The doctor was about to apply a poultice because Rebecca's breathing had become labored.

Phileas quickly changed into the clean clothes that John had brought up from the _Aurora_. Adjusting his cufflinks, he smiled into the mirror. _She's alive, she's alive, she's alive._ He was nearly light-hearted. 

When he returned to Rebecca's room, the air was heavy with new pans of steaming hot water and pungent herbs. Rebecca was propped up high on her pillows, asleep again.

"When she awakens, she must take a few sips of this medicinal tea," the doctor whispered wearily. For the first time Phileas realized Dr. Riley had been up most of the night with one or another of his patients. 

"Thank you for everything you've done."

"If you hadn't found her when you did, she may not have lasted many more days. But she has a fighting spirit about her."

"Yes," Phileas agreed quietly, sitting next to her.

Riley sat in the chair Phileas had occupied the night before. "Your valet has a concussion but will make a full recovery. I've ordered him to bed. He is a most unusual man," he said with a smile that seemed to lift only one corner of his mouth.

"That is good news. And what of Miss Slater?" Phileas asked in his crisp, public voice, causing Rebecca to stir. He asked again, quieter. "How is Margaret?"

Riley's smile left as fast as it came. "That's a different story. She's in shock. I'm concerned about her." He leaned forward. "I'm concerned about all of you and what you've been through—and I haven't been told what that is. Would you please enlighten me?"

Phileas hesitated. This overbearing healer had proven to be a caring, competent physician. If John trusted him, then Phileas could, too. He gave a brief summary of the past six weeks, leading up to the previous night's events.

Riley sat back, his frown causing deep furrows to run along both sides of his mouth. "The world is truly an evil place, Mr. Fogg," he said finally. "You and your family have lived a nightmare. The only ones who seem to be faring alright this morn are Verne and Baker."

"I'm doing much better as well." 

"You've been through psychological torment and have put your body through much. First, an excess of alcohol, then the complete absence of it. Have you ever thought of moderation?"

Phileas could almost hear Rebecca's laughter. "I am doing well," he said simply and looked down at her sleeping face.

Riley sighed heavily, knowing he was talking to a brick wall. "I'll go wait for the nurse to arrive from Dublin. I need to check on my patients in town, but I shall return this afternoon."

"Thank you, doctor," Phileas said. "Verne and Passepartout would be so relieved to see Rebecca. May they look in?"

Dr. Riley smiled the odd half-smile again. "I'm surprised you asked this time, Mr. Fogg. Yes, they may look in."

****

"Forgive and leave…further retribution to the Power that claims it!"—Nathaniel Hawthorne, _The Scarlett Letter_

Verne studied the shelves of books that lined John's study. Any other time he would have delighted to explore new titles, feel the leather bindings gently crack as he opened them, smell the pages. Today, they were a blur.

He had slept fitfully after eating the hearty meal Mrs. Hudson served in his room. He had to admit the clean sheets and warm fire felt wonderful after the day's adventure. But this morning he felt guilty for his pleasure. Upstairs was Rebecca—alive, thank God—but ill. Passepartout was in the room next to his nursing a concussion. And Margaret…Jules' heart sank.

"Verne?" Dr. Riley poked his head into the room. "You may go up and see Miss Fogg. Briefly."

Jules let out a sigh. "Thank you."

He entered the sick room quietly. The curtains were still drawn, but sunshine outlined the edges and cast odd streaks of light across the bed. Phileas sat next to Rebecca, one arm protectively stretched across the mass of pillows she lay against. In the silence, Jules could hear her rough intake of air. Phileas gently held her hand, his eyes fixed only on her. Jules felt like an intruder on this intimate scene.

"Ah, here's Verne, Rebecca."

She slowly opened her vibrant blue eyes. "Jules," she whispered.

She still had the same effect on him. He felt dazzled and out of breath—and began to cry with relief.

"I'm sorry," he hastily said and sat next to the bed. "Rebecca."

She forced a smile. "Thank you, Jules. For all that you did."

"None of it would have happened if it hadn't been for Margaret."

"Margaret?"

"I haven't told Rebecca everything," Phileas quickly said. "But we have time enough for that."

There was a humble knock at the door. "Come in," Phileas called.

Passepartout, his eyes half-closed in pain, entered the room. A white bandage covered most of his forehead. "The evilest doctor said…oh, Miss Rebecca!"

The valet flung himself across the room but gently landed on the other side of her bed. She again opened her eyes.

"Oh, Jean. You're injured. And what have you done to your hair?"

"It is nothing, nothing! Seeing you makes me better!" he laughed. "Master, isn't this the best of all days?"

"I can think of none better," Phileas agreed.

"Master, I know what makes Miss Rebecca better. Please, I go to the _Aurora_ and make it. Please, master."

"Passepartout, the doctor has ordered you to bed," Phileas gently scolded.

"I go quickly as thunder flashes."

"I'll go with him, Fogg. We'll take Baker's carriage. You know Passepartout has cures that can…"

"Quite," he replied. "Very well. But make it quick. I don't want to endure Riley's wrath."

After Jules and Passepartout left the room, Rebecca turned her face toward Phileas. "There were times I doubted my sanity. Cavois would tell me one day that you had killed yourself, and the next, he would say you were alive."

"I must confess I thought I was going mad as well."

"The difference is I'm not used to it," she marshaled a grin. Phileas kissed the top of her head.

"There were times that I imagined you called for me. But, on a few of those occasions, I was drunk," he admitted.

"But I did call for you," she replied seriously. "One night in particular. I pleaded with you to help me."

"I heard you," he whispered. "I did. I heard you."

She said weakly, "I'm so tired, Phileas."

"Go to sleep. I'll check on where that nurse is," he said, rising. "Before you know it, Rebecca, you'll be back at Shillingworth Magna, preparing the estate for Christmas, or in London giving Chatsworth what for. You will be better soon."

She watched him leave the room and slowly closed her eyes. _No, Phileas. I won't be going to London again._


End file.
